


Whatever This Is...

by clytemnestras



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clytemnestras/pseuds/clytemnestras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One snowy night after an awful case, Greg finds himself in need of comfort, and goes to the only person he knows can give it to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever This Is...

He dropped the cigarette and stomped any semblance of life from it, feeling the distinct twist of failure is his gut and lungs.

 

The day had been… Bad. Not interesting, just bad.  Little girl found in the trunk of her uncle's car; and the less said about that the better. He needed a shower. He needed to sleep. But fuck if all he really needed was for someone to wrap their arms around him and tell him the world isn't just a place for bastard scum to shit all over. (And _breathe_ )

 

And that's why he was stood here, in the snow. Looking for a reason, looking for a man.

 

Greg Lestrade stared at the club door for a small eternity, shivering as snowflakes blanketed him and the cold seeped into his skin; waiting. This wasn't what they did, what they were, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His faith in humanity floundering, his heart shattered and frozen, bones weary from the cold, he needed the warmth. He needed care. He needed rest.

 

Footsteps, slow and precise sounded from beyond the door; the snowfall distorting the noise. All of the world seemed so far away, all but that of the silhouette moving closer and closer...

 

"Gregory." Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway, looking impassive but for the small quirk to his pale lips, light from inside forming an inappropriate halo around his suited form.

 

And Greg didn't have the strength or will to chastise him about the name, he didn't have the grace to say hello, or smile or do anything but launch himself into the other man's arms, finding soft lips warm against his own as he sent both of them tumbling into the corridor.

 

Warmth was everywhere; pressed against his cold, damp body. Strong hands were holding him up, pulling him closer. Backed against a wall - a door? - as he savoured each kiss. There was something languid about how their lips met, soft, slow and knee-weakening. The gentle tug of teeth against his lower lip, the insistent sweep of the tongue mapping out and relishing every inch of his mouth… That's what made everything disappear.

 

 His forehead was pressed against Mycroft's as they took a moment, breathing into each other's mouths. Mycroft had his arms either side of Greg, braced against the wall like his legs might fail him, and Greg just found himself staring at the now dishevelled suit; damp from being pressed against his snow-covered form, and the kiss-swollen lips of the elder Holmes like it was the first time they'd stood here.

 

"Well," Mycroft breathed, "that was unexpected." He pulled away, straightening his clothes  in an ordered fashion (first collar, then tie, then shirt, and so on…) "I wasn't aware we were to meet up tonight; not that I mind the surprise." Mycroft let his gaze drift along Greg's body, half in appreciation, half in scrutiny - causing heat to prick along his skin.

 

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, sorry. I just…" Greg ran a hand through his hair, sending little water droplets flying as nerves coiled in his gut. "This isn't what we do, I know that. We don't curl up and hug and talk about our undying affection or whatever, but I needed to see you." He took a step closer, "I just needed _you_ , okay? Make fun of me all you like, I don't care, I've had the shittest day and all I wanted was to come here to you."

 

He wasn't sure what to expect, really. Distain, disgust, an offended sneer that Greg would dare to reduce himself to such pitiful emotions - those were the favourites. He didn't expect the two hands the cupped his face or the lips pressing gently against his own. He didn't expect the arms that wrapped around him and hugged him tight, or the soft whispers in his ear; "I will never make fun of you.  I will never belittle you. I will never expect anything from you that you don't give me freely. I will make time for you. If you turn up at the club or outside my door at three in the morning I will let you in. I am not a monster, Greg; despite what my brother might think. I do have a heart buried under the tailoring." 

 

Mycroft pressed a kiss under Greg's ear and proceeded to trail them along his neck until his coat collar blocked off access to the soft skin.

 

And if there were words that could have been said, Greg Lestrade didn't have them. So he spoke with his hands, fisting them in Mycroft's hair and dragging a face closer to his own, finding lips parted for him and swallowing gasps and moans whilst sucking  his tongue… Suddenly Greg wasn't cold anymore.

 

There was heat spreading through his body and overthrowing the bruising cold, sweat pricking along every inch of skin. He was being held, being cared for by the man he... _no, don't say love_...the man he needed. This was the only thing that would ever matter.

 

"Upstairs", Mycroft groaned, trying unsuccessfully to disentangle himself from Greg who was pulling at clothes whilst nipping at the soft skin of his throat. "I have... _oh God_ … I have a study we could use…" Then they were stumbling backwards up the stairs, falling and standing and gripping one another; fumbling ungracefully (and inefficiently) until they were falling backwards through doors and onto a sofa.

 

Then the only problem was the clothes between them. Greg took a moment to appreciate the sight of Mycroft looking debauched and completely ravaged - clothes askew, hair tousled into an ungodly-sexy mess; bee-stung lips wet and reddened, pale skin flushed with pink. For him. The impeccable, infallible Mycroft Holmes a hot fucking mess all spread out beneath him to take what he wished.

 

He took his time. Reaching down he picked up the silk tie, slowly untying it and running it through his fingers before draping it over the arm of the sofa. Then he worked on unbuttoning the shirt, placing a kiss on the skin as each inch of abdomen was revealed.

 

Then his head was being pulled up and he was being kissed again, fervent kisses with teeth clashing and bodies grinding together, melted snowflakes and sweat making hands slip as shirts were pushed off and hands ghosted over chests and gripped backs and pulled bodies so close that they were crushed together and there was nothing to do but pant and touch and  catch their breath.

 

Mycroft flexed his hips, pressing intimately against Greg as he grabbed the inspector's arse, grinding them together in an off-beat rhythm.

 

This was different from before. Less cold comfort and more warmth. Holding, kissing, clutching each other like they couldn't bear to be apart.

 

Then trousers were gone and underwear followed quickly after. Then Mycroft - who had hands _everywhere_ \- was licking a long line across his neck and along his collarbone and as hard as Greg tried to keep up, with fingers pinching and scratching and rubbing all over, he struggled to do  anything but squeeze his eyes shut and groan.

 

Their cocks rubbed together between them, a delicious but oh god not enough friction, and Greg finds himself thrusting hopelessly to try and find more. Except Mycroft's mouth was behind his eat again, murmuring and kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin, taking Greg's mind to a decidedly other place. He crawled down Mycroft's body, making strategic stops to lick and bite and suckle until Mycroft was writhing wildly beneath him.

 

 "Greg," Mycroft moaned, "Buggering hell, Greg."

 

That enticed a smile from the detective, who was frantically kissing Mycroft's hips, sucking until the skin was reddened then biting down all along his hips and thighs until Mycroft was quivering with need.

 

It wasn't until then that Greg grabbed Mycroft's cock and began to pump it in a deliberate and slow rhythm. His mouth continued to map out the other man's body, tongue flicking in and out of his bellybutton, teeth tugging at nipples as fingers ran along the thick vein on the underside of his cock, long strokes that had Mycroft throwing his head back in frustration. Greg's smiled a little wider, grip tightening around Mycroft's length and pumping faster in a syncopated rhythm. It was not unappreciated. Mycroft arched up into the strokes, making incoherent noises that were supposed to be affectionate as his legs fell open.

 

Looking down at that the beautiful mess, those closed eyes, arched back, with legs splayed open wantonly, Greg realised his dilemma. "Uh, Mycroft?"

 

"Hmm?" Mycroft managed to breathe out the sound, though he struggled to say anything else.

 

"Do you have any lube? Or a condom?"

 

If this had been like the other times, in one of the hotel suites Greg would have know which drawer to pull them out of. But this was a new development for them. This was him being let inside Mycroft's private space. This was trust and affection, not thoughtless summonings and wanton fucking.

 

And he watched as Mycroft slipped a hand beneath the sofa and dragged out a black metal box. He flipped it open, reached inside and pulled out a condom and a bottle of lube without caring to look before banding them both to Greg with a smug smile.

 

"You sly fucker." Greg squeezed out a generous amount of lube and covered his fingers, circling Mycroft's entrance teasingly. With slight pressure, he leant down and captured Mycroft's lips with his own before pushing his finger inside. Mycroft groaned into his mouth as Greg slid the finger in and out, quick then slow in random bursts before pulling out completely.

 

Two fingers. Fast thrusts, slow thrusts, fast, slow, slow, fast, scissoring so they stretched him, curling to hit his prostate. Three fingers.

 

Mycroft gasped autonomously, needing more of this. More friction, more touching, more stretching. Then fingers pulled out, eliciting a mewl of disappointment until something slick and hard pressed against his entrance.

 

Greg felt Mycroft bucking beneath him, subtly trying to impale himself on Greg's cock, so he rubbed it along the other man's entrance for a while before thrusting inside with a grunt.

 

He leant down then, pressing his forehead against Mycroft's as they both adjusted and they kissed leisurely, panting softly into one another's mouths. Greg began to rock his hips, pulling out slightly before thrusting back inside, moving further out each time. All the while they kissed, swallowing down moans like air, cradling faces, hugging bodies close.

 

Greg wrapped his hand around Mycroft's prominent erection and began pumping in time with his thrusts, whilst Mycroft wrapped his legs tightly around his back to get a better angle.

 

The legs around his back pulled him in further, ankles crossed and digging in to his spine whilst he punctuate each thrust with a pull of Mycroft's cock.

 

It was punishing, the speed, the proximity, the intensity. He used his free hand to grab Mycroft's hips, slamming himself inside with needful force. He could feel Mycroft's heartbeat quickening where their chests pressed together, feel the heavy, frantic breaths. Their skin was slippy and sweat-slicked as they slid against one another and Greg wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on.

 

Release coiled low in Greg's belly, hot and begging; and he  began to wank Mycroft frantically, speed in up his strokes to match his faltering thrusts. Mycroft arched up, burying his face in Greg's shoulder as he came with a shout, release  pulsing over Greg's and his own stomach. And Mycroft's clenching around him was all it took to drive Greg over the edge as he collapsed on top of his lover in a messy, sweaty heap.

 

The rest of the night was mostly a blur. Greg remembered curling up beside Mycroft on the sofa, spooning him, with an arm draped possessively around his abdomen, and he vaguely remembered Mycroft getting up later on to wipe them both clean.

 

He didn't remember the older Holmes leaving him to sleep, so when he woke up alone, Greg was cold and slightly shocked. Moreso when he found the tie fastened loosely around his neck (which, for the record, was _ALL_ he had on). And that him smile. Because it said something, that blue tie with tiny pale diamonds dotted along the silk. It said he was a part of something real. It said he was liked (if not loved) by a great man. But it mostly said "Here is a tie, I'll share it with you."

 

And that, somehow, was the most important thing of all.


End file.
